


The Man and the Mermaid

by Hay_Bails



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Fawnlock, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV John Watson, Realistic Fawnlock, Sherlock Whump, possible eventual johnlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"People always dream of being able to fly like birds, swim like fish... being able to run like deer." the man in the mask breathed quietly. He looked hungrily at Sherlock's legs. "Do you want that, Mister Holmes?"</p>
<p>This is a "Fawnlock" story with a canonical twist. </p>
<p>Enjoy at your discretion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me make sure there are no misunderstandings.
> 
> This is not a "Fawnlock" story, with rainbows and forests and mystical, mythical shit. This story is set in London a little after 2010. This story has blood. This story has gore. 
> 
> I first read a "Fawnlock" story a few months ago - and I hated it. It didn't seem to capture the essence of Sherlock. Now, while I may not do that very well either, I wanted to at least give it a go. It seemed like such a fascinating concept. Sherlock Holmes on the legs of a deer! How intriguing! I wanted to write something using the same idea - but set amidst the BBC show itself. I wanted something believable. 
> 
> I hope you'll forgive me, dedicated Fawnlock (and Sherlock) fans. 
> 
> Eventually, maybe, there will be a happy ending.

* * *

 

 

_Present_

            “Sherlock?” I ask softly, shifting my torch to my left hand to push open the door to the laboratory. The power’s gone out during the raid, and the room is dark. Shards of shattered glass equipment litter the tiled floor. It takes me only a minute to find my friend, huddled against a wall, on his knees. The torch's light passes over his frame.

            “Sherlock!” I shout, rushing toward his side. “Are you-“

            “Don’t look at me, John,” he hisses, recoiling. His body shifts closer to the wall.

            I falter about a meter away from him. The torchlight catches his bent neck and slumped shoulders.

            “But why-“

            “I said _don’t look at me!”_

            I am taken aback by the urgent tone in his voice. My legs freeze in place. But, ever obedient, I slowly move the torchlight so it is shining beside him, instead of on him.

            “Are- are you hurt?” I ask, concern lacing my voice.

            He lets out a bitter laugh, near hysterical.

            “You could say that.” Attempts his usual nonchalance, and fails.

            My jaw tenses. “Sherlock, if you’re hurt, then I need to look at you.” I can just make out his silvery eyes, glinting at me in the darkness. The Yard’s sirens wail faintly outside. The moment is long, and he takes his time answering.

            “I suppose it’s inevitable at some point, isn’t it?”

            I take another cautionary step toward him. “It’s me or them, Sher,” I say softly. I know how much he hates showing weakness in front of others. But he’s obviously hurt. Badly. The closer I get, the more apparent it is. I can just make out his right arm, gripping the closet doorframe beside him. His hand is shaking.

            “Might as well get it over with then, _doctor,”_ he says through gritted teeth.

            I take one more step, and am able to kneel beside him. “Where does it hurt?” I ask him, trying my hardest to keep my emotions out of my voice. I have to be a doctor now. I can’t let my feelings cloud my judgment. I shine the torch just under his face and he gives me the most ghastly grin, like a child reading a Poe story to his friends.

            “Try lower.”

            I swallow, and move the torchlight down toward his stomach. And that’s when I see it.

            Hair.

            Well, not hair exactly. It’s more like… fur. Blood seeps through it, where it meets his skin just below his navel. I breathe in through my nostrils as I realize the implications.

            “Oh, they didn’t…” I murmur.

            Sherlock slumps. “They did.”

            “Sherlock…” I mutter. I’m suddenly filled with anger. My veins burn with it. The torch begins to shake in my hands. I can sense my friend watching me intently, but I don’t care. “Those _bastards_!” I yell, standing suddenly. I kick the table next to us, causing a tray of glass vials to go flying. I breathe heavily, and let the torch drop to the floor.

            “John,” Sherlock says softly. I feel his hand brush against my ankle. And just as suddenly as the anger had stricken me, it is gone. I kneel beside my best friend once more, and place my hand on his arm. My throat struggles against a barrage of questions.

            “Is it- how did-“

            He shushes me with a look.

            “It’s permanent,” he says softly. Clinically. “And, judging by the results of previous experiments, it’s terminal.”

            Many people would wonder how he could pronounce his own death sentence so unfeelingly. But I see it. A flicker in his eye. A tremor in his arm.

            Sherlock Holmes is terrified.

            “God,” I mutter, and pull his thin frame into my arms. “I won’t let it come to that, you know,” I whisper. I reach up and put a hand on the back of his head. “I won’t lose you.”

            He sucks in a breath. “I know, John.”

            We stay like that for a number of minutes, the quiet wrapping around us.

            Then Holmes’ mobile rings.

            “Jesus,” I mutter, nearly jumping out of my skin.

            “That will be Lestrade,” he says softly. He instinctively reaches to his waist to pull the phone from his pocket. His fingers brush fur instead. The phone continues to ring, somewhere to our left.

            “Oh, John,” he says, voice cracking as his fingers feel his new set of legs. “I think I might be sick.”

 

* * *

 

_Four Days Earlier – The Mermaid_

            They found the body in an airtight barrel floating on the Thames. At least, it had been an airtight barrel until somebody had opened it to remove the bricks.

            Sherlock had jumped up immediately when the DI had called, yelling something about nines and rushing us out of the flat with the use of numerous expletives. We threw some money at the cabbie, and in about six minutes had arrived at what was probably the most security-laced crime scene I had ever set foot on.

            The consulting detective buzzed off to the riverside, ready to do what he did best. I hung behind, looking to Detective Inspector Lestrade for any ideas as to what we were up against.

            “Glad you two were able to get here so quickly,” Lestrade said, watching my erratic flatmate zip here and there, asking questions and observing.

            “Well, whatever you told him, he said it was a nine.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

            “A _nine_? Jesus.” He shook his head. “Doctor Watson, this is an eleven at least. Maybe a twelve.”

            “Really?” I raised an eyebrow, looking over to the barrel. “Why do you say that?”

            But before he could answer, Sherlock grabbed me roughly by the arm and dragged me closer to the body. “ _Look_ , John!” he exclaimed.

            “Yeah, I’m looking,” I replied. I wrinkled my nose. Eau de Thames hadn’t exactly worked wonders for the poor vic’s smell.

            The man was curled tightly into the barrel, skin white and pruned. He was naked but for a pair of – admittedly tacky – Halloween style feathered wings tied to his back. There was something about him, though. Something about those wings.

            The barrel itself was dark grey, and had a murky logo on it stenciled in white block lettering. _Avalon Enterprises._ I filed the name away in the back of my head for later. The corpse's wings still nagged at me. They didn't quite look as fake as I'd like them to.

            “Hang on,” I muttered, looking more closely. “Are those wings…”

            “They’ve been grafted onto his back. He’s one of the first of a series of human-animal hybrids we’ve seen in the city. Except this one… this one has a complete set.”

            I blink a few times. "A serial killer?"

            "Multiple killers, in all likelihood."

            "And you didn't tell me?" I glared at him for a moment before waving away the statement with my hand. The day Sherlock was honest with me would be the day I'd start worrying about him. "Nevermind. You can fill me in later.. you’re telling me someone has been killing people, then sewing animal bits onto them?”

            Sherlock fixed me with a _look._

            “Take that; reverse the order.”

            “Oh god. This poor bloke was grafted while he was still _alive?_ ”

            “Yes,” my flatmate said, eyes gleaming.

            I swear, here was the only person in the world who could legitimately get excited over torture.

            “Don’t you see, John?” he carried on, oblivious to my disbelief. “Somebody, somewhere, is performing an experiment. They’re creating people who are half man, half beast.”

            _Science,_ I thought. _Joy._

            “And this makes you happy because-?”

            Sherlock, predictably, ignored me.

            “It’s a _mermaid,_ John.”

 

* * *

 

_Present_

            Sherlock, contrary to his statement, is not sick.

            Sherlock faints.

            “Jesus,” I breathe again, hurriedly catching his torso in my arms. I mutter a soft “all right,” perhaps as reassurance, and draw my friend close to my body. I pick my torch up from where it lies on the floor, and try to angle it so I can see better.

            I’m still processing what I am seeing when light begins to flicker around me.

            “John!”

            “Over here!” I call, and Lestrade and his team rush over. Their torchlight joins my own, and there is a collective murmuring as the team sees what I see.

            “Shit,” Lestrade curses, kicking at the dust around his feet. “Shit!”

            I ignore him.

            “Ambulance, stat. Tell them to have blood ready for transfusion,” I say. “And call Mycroft.”

            Lestrade snaps into action and nods, pulling out his mobile. He covers the receiver with his hand.

            “What do I tell them about…” he gestures vaguely toward Sherlock’s legs.

            I pause, then shake my head. “Just tell them to have the blood on arrival.”

            I brush Sherlock’s hair out of his eyes. “Don’t you worry,” I whisper, though he likely can’t hear me. “You’re going to be just fine.”

            I continue to whisper to my friend - perhaps for my own sanity - for the next eight minutes until the ambulance arrives. Sherlock is moved into the vehicle and, thanks to Mycroft’s quick work, fitted with a pack of blood already labeled “Holmes, S.” I breathe a sigh of relief.

            Lestrade tells me that he and Mycroft will meet us at the hospital. I nod, and climb into the back of the ambulance with my friend. The doors close with a muffled thump, and we begin our journey.

            Sherlock is covered in a garish orange blanket. An oxygen mask covers his face. He looks so pale. It’s surreal – almost funny. Sherlock is already one of the palest people I know. If he was any paler, we could get him a white wig and call him an albino. I study his face carefully, not really amused by the thought.

            We arrive at Bart’s in minutes. I thank any deities that might be out there that it isn't rush hour. Sherlock is wheeled out on a gurney, and I follow him into the building, legs running on autopilot. They get him into intensive care. I am relegated to the hallway. There is a window looking into his room, however, and for the first time, I can truly study the damage that has been done.

            “Oh, Sherlock,” I breathe, one of my hands trailing against the cool doorframe.

            His legs are a mess. In the light, you can see immediately that his legs – his human legs – have been amputated and rather hastily replaced by what look like deer legs. I find myself wondering about anatomy. What about femoral arteries? Can his blood actually flow through those legs? Have my cautionary measures been in vain?

            My hands are shaking. In my periphery, I can see a figure – I think it’s Mycroft – walking toward me. He joins me at the window, and after a few moments places a hand on my shoulder. At first, I think that the touch is meant to comfort me. But - no – I look over, and Mycroft’s face is decidedly green.

            I snap into doctor mode.

            “Right,” I say, turning him with a gentle touch and steering him toward a cold metal bench. “Only one of you is allowed to be ill at a time.”

            He nods, swallowing, and sits. I grab a waste bin two doorways down, bring it over, and set it in front of him as a preemptive measure. He breathes through his nose for a few moments.

            Then he is sick. I look away. It seems wrong to watch. Mycroft, who is normally the epitome of calm, retches two or three times. Then he is silent.

            “You all right?” I ask, sitting beside him. He wipes his lips with his sleeve, nodding.

            “Thank you, Doctor Watson,” he eventually whispers. As smoothly as he can, he pushes the waste bin to the side. “How is he?”

            I smirk. “You saw him.”

            He nods. “And you’ve spoken with him.”

            I sigh. “He’s…” I search for the right word. “I think he’s afraid. He didn’t expect…” I trail off.

            “No, he never does,” Mycroft says, sitting up a little straighter. Some of the color has returned to his face. “My little brother has a great capacity for idiocy in these situations.”

            I smile, just a bit. It’s almost good to hear Mycroft being dickish. It brings a sense of normalcy to the situation. I’m about to respond when the nurse in charge of Sherlock comes out.

            “Mr. Holmes?” he addresses Mycroft. He ignores me rather pointedly. I don’t blame him. It’s difficult to shoo away visitors who aren’t family to the patient. I should know.

            Mycroft stands, straightening his collar. He wipes away imaginary traces of vomit with an almost imperceptible sweep of his fingers. “Yes?”

            “Your brother is stable. However, his condition…” the nurse trails off, unsure.

            “Yes?” he says again. Anyone who didn’t live with a Holmes wouldn't have been able to detect the hint of panic in his voice.

            The nurse looks down. “The lower body has been fully severed at the bottom of the abdominal aorta – something called translumbar amputation. It has been replaced with what appears to be the lower body of a… of a deer.”

            A flash of annoyance crosses Mycroft’s face. “Yes, I can see that. Is the damage reparable?”

            The nurse cowers. “Well… you see… we believe that the deer’s body is actually staunching the blood flow.” The nurse looks up. “If we amputate, he will die.”

            Mycroft deflates.

            The nurse continues, a bit tentatively. “Sir, your brother… he may stay like this permanently.”

            Mycroft’s nostrils flare. “My brother will _not_ remain like this.”

            The nurse looks at him uneasily. He shifts his weight. “It’s the only way, sir – at least for now.”

            “Plenty of people live without legs.” I study Mycroft’s face carefully. Sherlock’s brother has very little patience when it comes to the welfare of his sibling.

            “Yes, but,” the nurse says, trying his hardest to make Mycroft understand.

            I take in a deep breath. I know what’s coming. I’ve seen it before, in the sands of Afghanistan. A leg is just a leg, but the whole lower body? I put a hand on Mycroft’s arm. He’s surprisingly warm.

            “We could perform a hemicorporectomy – removing the lower body from the pelvis down,” the nurse continues, forcing himself to meet Holmes’ eyes. “However, it’s an extremely traumatic procedure, and, well. It’s already been done to him once in the past twenty-four hours.”

            There’s a moment of silence. The older Holmes takes a moment to regroup. “Will he… will he be able to walk?”

            “We aren’t sure yet. We’re running scans now to see if the new – if the deer’s femoral arteries are properly connected to the abdominal aorta. If they aren’t aligned… we aren’t sure he’ll even survive.”

            Mycroft nods, and steps back toward the bench. He is quiet for a split second, gathering his thoughts before gesturing toward me.

            “This is John Watson. He is Sherlock’s doctor. You are to inform both of us of any change in Sherlock’s condition.” With that, he sinks back onto the bench.

            The nurse nods, and seems to look at me for the first time. He extends a hand.

            “Rupert Malone,” he says, introducing himself. I shake his hand, nodding. “I’ll keep you posted.”

            He walks back into the ICU, and I sit by Mycroft once more.

            I get the feeling that we’re in for a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

 

_Three Days Earlier - Avalon Enterprises_

 

            Avalon Enterprises turned out to be a dingy-looking grey warehouse in Battersea – at least on the outside. Lestrade explained to me that the company fabricated materials for surgical implants, with specialty in silicone plastics.

            Lestrade and Sherlock seemed convinced that the warehouse was a front for the hybrid experiments – and seeing as it had taken a full day for the Yard to get clearance to view even the outside of the building, I was beginning to believe them. The three of us sat shivering in Lestrade’s squad car, waiting for the heater to kick in. The warehouse seemed quiet on the outside, but it was still very early. The sun wasn’t out yet. I glanced over at Sherlock. His leg bounced impatiently. He wasn't happy.

            Since yesterday, Lestrade had downright forbidden any of his team, including Sherlock and me, to go anywhere near the warehouse on our own. A DNA scan had been run on the corpse in the barrel, and it was determined sometime in the afternoon that the body belonged to a man who had disappeared from Battersea not a week ago. There had, in fact, been four disappearances in the past week.

            Lestrade was just trying to be careful. The heater finally kicked in. Sherlock stopped bouncing his leg.

            “This would go about a thousand times faster if you would let me out of the car,” he muttered, glowering.

            “Sherlock Holmes, if you take one step out of this vehicle, I will arrest you myself,” Lestrade replied, not lowering his binoculars. “I won’t say that all the disappearances this week are related to Avalon. But look at the victims. Compare them for me, would you?”

            Sherlock glared at the window. “All adult, male, Caucasian, between thirty-five and forty-five years of age. All within a height of 1.8 to 1.9 meters. All between 75 and 80 kilograms. Happy?”

            Lestrade smirked, eyes still never leaving the binoculars. “They all look like you, idiot,” he said. “It might not even be related at all. But I’m taking no chances. No such thing as a coincidence in my world.”

            Jesus. I sank back against the seat. I hadn't realized it until now, but Greg was right. The corpse yesterday, he had been submerged in water. His skin wasn’t right. But the others, in their photographs – Lestrade was completely right. They all looked, at least on the surface, like Sherlock.

            I wondered what it meant.

            I snuck another look at my flatmate. He looked a bit like a caged animal himself, trapped in the back of the car.

            “Why don’t you just have John and I stay at home, then? If we’re such a hindrance to your investigation,” Sherlock bit back, his tone characteristically acidic.

            “Because this will go much more quickly if I have your help. If I put you at Baker Street, you’ll just be back here in half an hour anyway.”

            “Hm,” Sherlock responded noncommittally.

            I crossed my arms over my chest, preparing for a long morning. I was relieved when, not five minutes later, a covered supply truck pulled up to the warehouse. The headlights shone like two small suns as the vehicle idled by the building.

            “Here we are,” Lestrade said. Sherlock sat up to get a better look.

            The truck was grey, with no markings. It pulled up to a dock on the side of the warehouse. From our vantage point across the street, we could see two men climb out from either side. They walked into the warehouse, and a minute later, came out carrying a barrel between them. It looked just like the barrel we had seen in the Thames yesterday – dark grey, with something white stamped on the side of it. From the way they were carrying it, it must have been heavy.

            They loaded it into the back of the truck, got back in, and backed the vehicle away from the warehouse. They drove off.

            “Aren’t you going to follow them?” Sherlock asked, sounding impatient.

            “Yeah, give me a minute,” Lestrade responded. He waited until the truck had turned the corner. Then he turned the key in the ignition and began to drive after them.

            He kept about a block’s worth of distance between us, and kept the headlights off. It was about four in the morning, and there weren’t many people on the road.

            “Are you sure this isn’t just a supply run, or something like that?” I asked curiously.

            Sherlock gave me his patented withering look. “It’s four in the morning, John. Do you really expect somebody to be transporting plastic body parts at four in the morning?”

            “Right,” I said.

            “They ship two barrels of plastics each day – one to Landauer, and one to Sorensen,” Lestrade said, keeping his eyes on the truck ahead of us. “The first scheduled shipment isn’t until noon. What do you think?”

            I shrugged, defending myself weakly against Holmes' logic. “You never know.”

            We followed the truck carefully around Battersea Park before coming to an abrupt stop. The truck had pulled in front of an apartment complex on the river, and the men were getting out once more. Lestrade parked our vehicle. Sherlock opened his door to follow them.

            “Sherlock!” Lestrade hissed, but my friend was gone.

            “Here we go,” I said, and pulled myself out of the car to follow him.

            He crouched behind a rubbish bin, and I got as near as I could, hiding behind a bench. I couldn’t see the men, but I was close enough to hear them say something.

            There was a chunk. There was a creak and a splash.

            The men said a few more words. I tried to make out the conversation, but it was indistinct. There was a pause, and the truck engine started. I waited until the truck was gone before leaping up.

            Sherlock was already at the spot the men were standing, prodding the ground with his foot.

            “Did you see?” he asked me.

            I shook my head. “No, but I heard. What was that splash?”

            The squad car’s lock chirped. Lestrade came running to meet us. “What did you see, Sherlock?” he asked.

            “Morons,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. He looked for all the world like a surly child.

            “Hey, no call for that,” I chided. “What was the splashing sound?” I asked again.

            Sherlock sighed. He moved a meter to the left and tapped at the edge of the sidewalk with his foot. A decorative plant covered the brick just next to his shoe.

            “It’s a trap door,” he explained, as if we were the children. He leaned down and moved the plant’s leaves away from the brick. A grey padlock, the same color as the cement, lay on the walkway. “The splash you heard was an underground waterway – a small tributary into the river. Mostly rainwater and sewage from aboveground. Perfect for sweeping dead bodies out to sea.”

            He pointed left, at the river. There was steady gush of water emanating from a large but well-disguised plastic pipe. “See there? That’s where the tributary meets the water.”

            “My god,” Lestrade said, looking more closely. “You’re right.”

            “Of course I am. Now come on. I need to pick this lock so we can-“

            “No! Nope,” Lestrade cut in, straightening up to confront my friend. “We are calling this in like professionals. Understand?”

            Sherlock stood. “Oh, come on,” he whined. “The police are _slow!_ It’ll be half an hour at least before we can do anything about this with them. And by that time, who knows how far downstream the body will be!”

            I cleared my throat. “How, um, how can we be sure that it was a body they were dumping? And not just garbage or something?”

            Sherlock gave me a _look._

            “Who dumps garbage at four in the morning into a _secret trapdoor_ that leads to the Thames?”

            I raised my hands a little. Out-logic me twice, shame on me. “Okay. Fair point.”

            “So Avalon grafts the victims, stuffs them into barrels when they die, brings them here, and dumps the bodies,” Lestrade said. “Christ.”

            “Yes, thank you for summarizing everything I’ve just said,” Sherlock muttered drily. He straightened his shoulders and looked over the river. “It’s too late to open the trap door; the barrel is probably in the main waterway by now,” he said. “We need to hire a boat.”

            I scratched the back of my neck. “We could ask a fisherman? They might be out this early,” I suggested.

            “That’s the spirit! Good thinking, John,” Sherlock said. I smirked wryly. At least I'd gotten something right this morning. The detective bounded back in the direction of the squad car. “What are you two waiting for? Let’s move!”

            Lestrade and I glanced at each other. Without another word, we followed Sherlock back to the vehicle.

            It seemed we had some fishing to do.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Present_

 

            My eyes open slowly. There’s a rustle of movement around me, and I sit up stiffly, disoriented. I’m on some sort of flat, cold surface. Sterile hallway. Nurses, rushing back and forth. Hospital? I rub my eyes blearily.

            In a rush, the events of last night flow back into my brain.

            “Christ, Sherlock,” I moan. I straighten up, my joints creaking. I must have dozed off on the hallway bench.

            There’s quite a commotion, I realize. The nurses, of course, are running in and out of Sherlock’s room.

            Because it would be asking too much of the universe for them to be rushing into a different room.

            I stand, and grab the sleeve of one of the nurses. It’s the same nurse from last night.

            “Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat. “Could you tell me what’s going on? Is he all right?”

            The nurse – Malone – gives me a small smile. “He’s fine, sir. He’s just woken up. We’re making sure he stays conscious. His scans, as far as we can tell, have all come up good. The blood is still flowing, somehow. Bit of a miracle, really.” He flashes me a smile. “We think he’ll be just fine.”

            He’s awake. Oh, that’s good news. That’s the best news I’ve had all week.

            “Can I- can I see him, do you think?”

            “Oh, sure,” Malone says. “In fact, I think he was asking for you. But… just remember, the legs… well.” He shuffles on his feet. “It can be a bit of a shock, is all.”

            “Yes, thanks,” I say distractedly. Malone must not realize I was the one who found him in the first place. I’ve already seen the legs.

            I take a few quick, shaky steps and pass through the doorway into my friend’s room.

            Sherlock is laying propped up on a number of pillows. A crowd of doctors and nurses surround his lower half, shielding his new legs from view. His heart monitor pulses quick but steady. I check the other screen, and his numbers all look good. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

            Then I look at my friend’s face.

            “Oh, Sherlock,” I say, moving over to the side of his bed. “Sherlock, Sherlock…”

            His eyes fix on my face, and he looks at me desperately.

            “John,” he says softly.

            I don’t realize how tense my body has been until the moment I touch his cheek. I let out a sigh so deep I’m actually worried my legs will give out. I kneel beside Sherlock’s bed to prevent an unseemly collapse, and brush his hair off his forehead.

            He looks… normal. You’d expect him to be totally changed, but no. The events of the past couple of days have just made him look tired. Same ivory skin, same unruly hair. Same mercury eyes. I drink in his face, not allowing my gaze to stray downward.

            The nurses cluck and shuffle around me. I don’t pay them any mind.

            “Look at you,” I say. “You’re going to be just fine. You’re going to be fine.” I repeat it like a mantra, as if to reassure myself as well as him. I laugh, maybe just a tad hysterical. “You’re fine, Sherlock.”

            He bats away my hand and gives me that withering look.

            “What exactly, John Watson,” he says, slowly and deliberately, “constitutes your definition of the word ‘fine?’”

            I smile. Back to his old self, just like that.

            Still, a moment later, he finds my fingers once more, gently twining our hands together. I don’t say a word. I give his hand a light squeeze.

            “It seems to me, doctor, that ‘fine’ is rather a perfect antonym for my current predicament,” he says. I look up into his eyes. He’s a shade pale.

            I haven’t even looked at his… at the legs yet. The nurses still surround his lower body like flies, providing an adequate screen – at least for now. I keep my eyes fixed on my friend’s face. This way, it’s almost easy to pretend like nothing has happened. Like any moment, he’ll jump out of this bed and whisk us away to finish the case.

            “How are you feeling?” I ask. “Any pain?”

            He jiggles his free arm, showing me the intravenous tube. “They’ve got me on a half dose. Don’t want to upset my new anatomy, I understand.”

            So that explains why he’s so coherent. He’s speaking slowly, but he’s obviously very aware of the situation.

            “God, only a half dose? Really?” My forehead creases in frustration. “Sherlock, you must be in agony!” He smirks, but the expression lacks its usual spark. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around mine. I get the feeling that’s as close to a yes as I’m going to get. “Oh, Sherlock,” I breathe. Poor thing.

            He shakes his head slowly. “Did Mycroft see me?” he asks, distracting both of us.

            I hesitate for just a second.

            “Yeah, he – he did, Sherlock.” I catch myself saying his name, over and over. Is that something I do now? Or did I always use his name so often? I frown. Is that important? I blink. Mycroft. Right.

            “You know, he vomited when he saw,” I continue, the corner of my mouth pulling up into a small, tight grin. “Never thought I’d see the day your brother couldn’t keep his composure.”

            Sherlock gives a satisfied nod, as if he’s glad he’s now got a leg up on his older brother. I chuckle softly.

            “Don’t worry, though,” I say, giving his hand another squeeze. “The only people that know are me, Mycroft and Lestrade.”

            “Lestrade?” he asks, brow furrowing.

            “Erm, yeah,” I say, shifting slightly. “He saw, at the warehouse. You, er, passed out.”

            “Hm. Damn,” he says casually, sinking further into the pillows. His eyelids droop for a fraction of a second, and his fingers curl around mine. I return the gesture. I know he needs to rest, but for some reason, the thought of losing sight of his eyes frightens me.

            “You all right?” I ask. The words are out of my mouth before I realize how stupid they sound.

            He exhales. “Would you like me to say yes?”

            I smile, a bit sad.

            “Fair point.” I rub my thumb along his knuckles. I wonder if he needs the touch as much as I do.

            We sit in silence for a few more minutes, him fighting to stay awake and me worrying he’ll fall asleep. He blinks slowly.

            “You need to rest,” I say after a while. I try to bite back the grudging tone that accompanies the words. It isn’t his fault he’s exhausted, after all.

            He glances at me, then nods with a yawn.

            “Sorry,” he says, infinitely softly.

            I raise my eyebrows, surprised.

            “You’re apologising?” I ask. “For what?”

            He shakes his head, like I haven’t quite understood his meaning. “Sorry for pulling you into all this,” he clarifies.

            I place my free hand on his shoulder.

            “Not your fault, Sherlock.”

            And it isn’t. Not really. If it had to happen all over, I still would have gone with him. I realise with a start that I really do love this life we’ve created - the mad genius and the blogger.

            “Go to sleep,” I say gently, brushing my fingers over the soft skin of his collarbone. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Just-“ I stop, closing my eyes. I open them again, and look up at him beseechingly. “Just promise you will wake up, yeah?”

            He watches me carefully, then nods, bringing our joined hands up to his face. Softly, like moths’ wings, he brushes his lips against my knuckles.

            “I promise,” he whispers against my skin.

            I shiver. “Good,” I whisper back, as he releases my hand. “Good.” His eyes drift shut.

            I stand, knees popping, as the myriad hospital sounds wash over me. I turn toward the foot of the bed, meaning to find a blanket to cover my friend with.

            My gaze settles on Sherlock’s new legs instead.

            Bile rises in my throat.

            “Oh, god,” I moan softly, and turn away.

            It’s a small victory, I think, that my stomach is made of sterner stuff than Mycroft’s.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

_Two Days Earlier - Battersea_

 

            It smelled bloody awful.

            One of the two men opening the barrel fainted.

            “Shit!” One of the suited guys – MI5? – ran over to help, but it was too late. The barrel was too heavy for just one man, and it tipped over, spilling the body unceremoniously onto the rocks.

            “Christ,” I heard Lestrade moan. I watched as the MI5 guy and his buddies carried the unconscious man off to one side. My eyes wandered back to the body.

            We’d managed to find the barrel after nearly two hours dragging through the murky waters of the river. We called it in, and within minutes, the beach had been swarming with officers and suits. They’d cordoned off a section for us and the boat, and after receiving clearance, we came ashore to open the barrel. It was, like the last one, stamped in big white letters proclaiming it the property of Avalon Enterprises. And inside, just as Sherlock had predicted, was another dead mermaid.

            Literally a mermaid. Well, a merman, at any rate. His upper body had been crudely attached to the back end of a shark. I scrutinized the dead man’s face. It did, I realized with a grimace, look an awful lot like Sherlock. Same build, similar facial features. I glanced back worriedly at my friend as he prowled around the victim. He didn’t seem to be acting out of the ordinary. Still, I thought, I had better keep a closer eye on him.

            We didn’t know for sure, of course, whether Avalon was targeting Sherlock or not. But the similarities between my friend and the dead men were troubling at best. Lestrade was right, I reasoned. No such thing as a coincidence when it comes to murder. I resolved to stay close to Sherlock, at least until this case was closed.

            “John, come here,” Sherlock said. I shook off my feeling of unease and stepped closer to the body. “What differences do you notice between this body and the last one?”

            I sighed, pinched my nose shut, and knelt beside the victim.

            “Well, besides the obvious, erm… well, the tail… this victim seems to have suffered severe hemorrhaging.” I pointed to the seam where fishtail met skin. “Looks like the skin didn’t take.”

            Darkish blood continued to ooze from the wound. The tail was grafted onto the man’s lower body, bound to it by a sloppy row of sparse stitches. Whoever had played surgeon did a poor job. The graft wasn’t holding. I supposed the two different kinds of skin had rejected each other. Or maybe the stitches had simply broken when the MI5 cronies had accidentally dropped the body onto the beach. Whatever the case, the tail was starting to come loose from the man’s lower body.

            The suit wandered back onto the scene, muttering discreetly into his walkie.

            “John Watson, I presume?” he asked. “And the ever-popular Sherlock Holmes.”

            I stood, brushing some of the muck from my knees. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge the guy. I rolled my eyes, and offered my hand. The man leered distrustfully, and very conspicuously did not shake.

            “And you are?” I asked.

            “The person who is going to tell you to vacate the premises. This case has been taken into the hands of the government.”

            “Hang on, you’re telling us to leave?”

            “That is correct.”

            “The guy whose creepy secret service friend just _passed out_ at the sight of a body is telling us to leave,” I shot back. The suit made no response. He simply waited for us to go. I planted my feet firmly on the rocks. “Nope. I woke up at three in the bloody morning, sat on a freezing boat for nearly two hours, and helped pull a dead body out of the Thames. I haven’t even eaten breakfast! We are _not_ being taken off this case!”        

            Sherlock walked up silently, pulling a set of latex gloves slowly from his wrists. I glanced up at him. He looked amused, and perhaps... proud? He tossed the gloves at the guy’s feet. I was put in mind of a knight tossing a gauntlet.

            “Not to worry, John,” he said conversationally. “I’m sure that the _government_ has everything under control. Come along.” He began walking away. Then, as if forgetting something, he turned back to the suit. “Oh, and give Mycroft my regards, will you? Good day.”

            He continued walking along the beach. I glared once at the suit - he was picking up Sherlock's discarded latex gloves - before trotting along to keep up with my friend. We passed under a line of yellow police tape. No one tried to stop us. Lestrade was nowhere to be seen.

            “What was that all about?” I asked.

            “Complete idiots, the lot of them. They’ve no idea what they’re getting into.” My friend frowned, but didn’t look back at the crime scene.

            “Yeah, I figured as much. Why did we get kicked off the case though? Lestrade seemed hell-bent for keeping you _on_ the case." Under my breath I added, "For once."

            Sherlock smirked. “Lestrade seems to think the best way to keep me safe is by keeping me close, while my older brother believes that distance is key. I have to say I preferred Lestrade’s method of confinement. Unfortunately, my older brother actually has the resources to _enforce_ his punishment.”

            “So Mycroft thinks you’re in danger?” I hazarded, sifting through his explanation.

            “Mm. Lestrade too.”

            We walked in silence along the beach for a while until we came to a bridge. We scrambled up the embankment and found ourselves in the welcome embrace of the city once more. I shivered as a gust of cold wind caressed my neck and face. I had to ask.

            “Are you? In danger.” I voiced the question as neutrally as I could, as we made our way vaguely back in the direction of Battersea.

            Sherlock looked at me and smiled. He actually smiled, the crazy man.

            “Oh, yes,” he said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Present_

 

 

            They’ve shaved the fur off his waist. 

            It’s standard procedure, of course – they need to be able to assess the wound, make sure that the new half takes – but it’s still disconcerting to see. There’s a moment of “oh-god-he’s-naked” before my world lurches back into place, and I remember that no, that isn’t actually _Sherlock’s_ lower body. Those aren’t _Sherlock’s_ genitals. Except, yeah, they _are_ his legs and his genitals and his-

            No. I run my hand down my face with a sigh. It is way too early to even begin thinking about this. I spare a glance back toward Sherlock’s face. If he’s seen my reaction, he doesn’t show it. His eyes are closed and his breathing even. I hope he’s asleep. I shake my head lightly and walk into the hallway to buy a coffee from the machine. It eats half a pound before finally spitting out a thick brown liquid into a plastic cup. I grimace and down the foul stuff in one go, before discarding the cup and walking back into Sherlock’s room. The caffeine helps.

            My muscles ache. Everything aches. I sit beside my friend on his bed, careful not to brush against the painful-looking join in his skin. I watch him for a while. Even in sleep, you can see the tiny creases by his eyes. He’s hurting so badly. I want to touch him, to smooth out those lines – but I’m so fearful of disturbing his rest that I don’t. I let him be.

            The nurses come and go, writing on their clipboards. Their soft chatter drills into my brain:

            “-pelvis is relatively unharmed, but the entire femur is taken from the deer-”

            “-abdominal aorta fused just above the pelvis-“

            “-need to monitor closely for infection-“

            “-moderate inflammation of the skin at the incision-“

            “-nerve endings are still alive.”

            That gets my attention.

            I look up. “What did you just say?” I ask the last nurse, who turns toward me.

            “The nerve endings of the deer. They’re still alive. They were reattached without tension – it looks as though the deer’s femurs were shaved to fit into Mr. Holmes’ pelvis. We’re pretty sure that given time, he’ll be able to feel his- the legs.”

            “Right,” I say breathily, looking down at Sherlock’s new lower half. I can’t believe it. There’s no way… then again, if the deer had been kept on ice and was fresh enough…

            The nurse goes on, obviously seeing my skepticism. “Of course, we can’t hope for much more than that, at least not at this stage. But he’ll be able to feel his legs, and with a bit of hard work, he might be able to achieve some independent movement.”

            I look back to my best friend’s face. He’s not sleeping, like I had hoped. His eyes are open and scrutinizing me.

            He’s heard everything that’s just been said.

            “You should be asleep,” I say, fretting. I turn away from the nurse, who goes back to whatever job he had been doing before.

            Sherlock shakes his head slowly.

            “They planned for me, you know,” he says quietly. “Those other dead men? They were used for a reason. Avalon needed to establish my height, my weight. My metabolism. How I would respond.”

            I make a face. “So you’re saying those victims were just practice for when you came along?”

            “Essentially, yes.” He sighs and closes his eyes in a grimace.

            “Still hurting?” I ask as gently as I can.

            He smirks. “They won’t give me anything for it. A former-addict-turned-medical-anomaly does not receive the privilege of morphine, I’m afraid,” he grits out.

            I look at him with concern. “What does that mean?”

            He glances at me, sighs, and closes his eyes. He doesn't respond for a few seconds. When he does, his voice is ice. “When I was twenty, I used heroin… often. I found it an adequate, if not ideal, form of distraction.” Every word sounds as if it is pulled through his throat on fishing hooks.

            I feel my eyebrows knit together. “Distraction… hang on. Sherlock…”

            “I know you don’t want to believe I was ever an addict, John, but I was.” He looks away from me, focusing on the small plastic table beside his bed. A glass of water sits there, half full. “Just as human as the rest of you.”

            I try not to analyze that last sentence too deeply.

            So Sherlock really _had_ been an addict. All of Lestrade’s “drug busts,” it seemed, had actually been, well, drug busts.

            “And the doctors won’t give you painkillers because they think it will reignite old habits.” I finish his thought for him.

             “It’s been nearly a decade, John,” he says, very, very quietly. His eyes remain on the glass of water. The surface of the liquid is smooth, serene. Untouched.

            I feel a surge of anger flash through me. Ten years clean? With an injury like Sherlock’s, a drug relapse should be the _least_ of a doctor’s worries. I turn to the closest nurse, voice seething.

            “Would you _please_ get him something for the pain?”

            She titters. “I’m sorry, I-“

            “No,” I say, stopping her before she can refuse. “Don’t tell me what you can and can’t do.” I stand, pushing her clipboard down so that she is forced to look into my eyes. “I want you to take a look at this man – a long, honest look – and see him as a _human being._ Which he is. And I want you to tell me, after doing that, whether you think he deserves to be deprived of painkillers.” 

            The other nurses in the room go silent. The only sound is the soft beeping of Sherlock’s heart monitor.

            The female nurse bristles, but swallows her pride.

            “Very well, _Doctor_ Watson,” she says with barely-hidden disdain. She leaves the room, and a minute later comes back to refill Sherlock’s IV drip with a more generous supply of the drug.

            I relax. “Thank you,” I say, returning to my friend’s side. I sit awkwardly.

            Sherlock nods once, looking pleased.

            I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “Don’t get used to me fighting your battles for you.” He huffs a tiny laugh.

            “Don’t get used to me letting you,” he replies, a touch slowly. The nurses go back to their work around us. 

            It feels… nice, to have Sherlock’s approval.

            The drug does its work, and my friend sinks gratefully back into the pillows. “John,” he mumbles, head lolling to one side.

            “Yep,” I reply. I rest my hand on his upper arm. He’s firm, and warm.

            “Thank you,” he slurs. And he’s out like a light.

            I smile, and squeeze his arm gently. Then I look down at his legs with a sigh. The angry red shaved skin at his hips, the mottled brown fur at his knees. The cloven black nubs of feet. For the first time, it really strikes me that Sherlock will never be _normal_ again. He’ll never be able to go out in public without attracting attention. He’ll never be able to run wildly through the streets of London, chasing villains. Christ, he might never even be able to _walk._

            I look back at the detective’s face, now smooth and free of pain.

            And some awful, dark part of me fervently hopes that Sherlock Holmes will never wake up again.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

 

_Two Days Earlier - Battersea_

 

            It always amazed me how Sherlock could eat after a crime scene.

            Never _before_ a crime scene – god forbid his _digestive system_ slow him down. But afterward? The man could put back a full English quicker than I could drink my tea.

            “You get enough to eat there?” I asked skeptically, as he pushed the empty plate to one side. I took another sip of my mercifully warm drink. The morning had been a cold one, and my fingers tingled pleasantly as they wrapped around the mug.

            “What did you notice about the crime scene, John?” he asked, ignoring my question. His fingers tapped once against the tabletop.

            “How do you mean?”

            “What was different? There was a key difference between this crime scene and the first one,” he stated. His eyes gleamed. He knew the answer – he was testing me to see if I could figure it out as well.

            I took a breath through my nose and thought for a moment. “Well, there’s the obvious difference of the type of animal they used. But I’m assuming that’s not what you’re looking for.”

            “You assume correctly.”

            Smug git. “Well… let me think. Was it a difference with the body?”

            “You’re guessing, John.”

            “Yeah, well, you’re not being very specific with your question.”

            His fingers formed a steeple in front of his chin. “Walk me through it, John. What’s the first thing we saw at both locations?”

            “The body.”

            “Wrong.”

            “The barrel?”

            “Yes. More specifically, what was in the barrel at the first scene?”

            “Erm… the body.”

            “Wrong. Well, technically correct, but what else?”

            It dawned on me. “The bricks!”

            “Yes, John!” Sherlock’s face curled up into what could almost be described as a triumphant smile. “The first barrel contained bricks; the second one didn’t. The first barrel wasn’t meant to be found.” He stared intently at the table for a moment.

            “Perhaps they ran out of time to fill the second one?"

            “Plenty of time to dump a body at four in the morning.”

            “So you think they deliberately left the bricks out of the second barrel?”

            “I think it’s possible, yes.”

            “Hang on,” I said, trying to understand. “If you’re trying to hide multiple bodies in the Thames, why would you only sink one barrel?”

            Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. His mouth slowly opened as he appeared to realize something. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, John! That’s clever!” He jumped up, his chair scraping against the tiled floor of the café. In one sleek movement, he swept his jacket from the back of the chair and ran outside. The scattered handful of patrons in the place glanced up with interest at the commotion.

            “Sher- wait!” I scrambled to catch up with him, hastily depositing a few pounds on the table to pay for our breakfast. “Sherlock!” I burst through the front doors, and caught a flash of movement to my left. I dashed down the street after my ridiculous friend. "What's clever?" I shouted after him.

            I caught up with him a block and a half later. He stopped abruptly and knelt beside a wall, motioning for me to do the same.

            “What?” I asked, winded. I put my hands on my knees, catching my breath. “What is it?”

            “Be quiet, John!” he reprimanded me in a whisper. Looking past the low wall in front of us, I realized why – Sherlock had brought us back to the crime scene. Battersea stretched away behind us. The suits that had banished us before were patrolling the perimeter, not ten meters away from where we stood.

            I ducked below the top of the wall. “Why are we back here?” I asked quietly.

            “The barrels, John! Don’t you see?” he hissed back at me.

            I shook my head.

            “No? Obviously not,” he sighed. The man’s brain was obviously miles ahead of mine. Irritating news for both of us, it seemed. “The second body, John. You asked back in the restaurant why the second body wouldn’t have been sunk like the first one. However, you were working under the assumption that Avalon Enterprises _didn’t want_ either body to be found.”

            “Well, didn’t they?”

            “If Avalon had wanted the bodies to disappear, they would have left the bricks out of _both_ barrels. They weren’t light enough to completely float, and in the dark hours before morning, they wouldn’t have been noticed. They would have been swept entirely out to sea, and in all probability would never have been seen again.”

            “But they _were_ noticed. The first one, anyway.”

            “Exactly! The first barrel was found by an angler near Purfleet – a popular spot for amateur sea fishermen. In such a high-traffic area, it was bound to be noticed sooner or later.”

            “But what about the second barrel? It didn’t have bricks. It could have floated out to sea.”

            “That’s the trick, John – the second barrel was released too soon after the first one. Avalon knew perfectly well that the first barrel was being investigated, and that their name was on it. And yet, they chose to release a second barrel, _right next to their own factory_ , just one day after the first barrel was found.” Sherlock snuck another quick look over the top of the wall. “We were able to recover it before it even left Battersea.”

            “So what you’re saying is…” I began slowly.

            “The first barrel was a decoy. It was merely there to grab our attention.”

            “Then what’s the second barrel?”

            Sherlock’s face turned upward into a garish grin.

            “The second barrel is bait.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Present_

 

            He does wake up, of course.

            He’s screaming. I’m startled awake by the sound of it. “Sherlock!” I yell, immediately jumping out of my chair to kneel by his bedside. His upper torso is bent slightly inward, as if he’s trying to sit up. I place both my hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him back down into the pillows. “Shh, Sherlock… Sherlock, it’s all right,” I murmur. I can’t tell if he’s heard me.

            He’s stopped screaming. He’s started crying.

            The machine monitoring the detective’s heart rate is going haywire. A nurse should be in at any moment. He won’t want them to see him like this, I realize. Sherlock loathes showing weakness.

            My chest feels hot and tight. I absolutely hate seeing my best friend in so much pain. Sherlock weeps, long wracking sobs punctuated by short sharp gasps for air. Feebly, he brings his left hand up to cover his face.

            He doesn’t want _me_ to see him like this. Christ.

            “Shh,” I try to soothe him, brushing my knuckles against his collarbone.

            “Joh-“ he tries, hiccoughing.

            “I’m here. All right?”

            “Please… don’t l- look at me…”

            It’s the same thing he said to me back at the warehouse. _Don’t look at me, John._ I squeeze his shoulder gently. “Hush now. Breathe with me.” I draw in a deep, audible breath. He complies, attempting to do the same despite his sobbing. He keeps trying, and after perhaps a minute he’s calmed down substantially, though his breath is still hitching.

            “There. Better?” I ask, giving his shoulder another light squeeze. He nods.

            There’s a knock at the door. Rupert Malone appears at Sherlock’s bedside. I stand to let him speak with his patient.

            “Everything all right, Mr. Holmes?” he asks kindly. Sherlock continues to nod, furiously wiping at his face with his hand. The heart monitor is returning to normal. “Would you like another round of painkillers?” he asks – a bit cautiously, probably remembering my earlier episode.

            Sherlock hesitates, before turning his face away from me. "Yes," he says in a measured voice. "Please." His breath still catches every couple of seconds. He’s still very obviously crying. Rupert thankfully doesn’t acknowledge the fact.

            “Thank you,” I say to the nurse, quietly and sincerely. He gives me a small smile, and adjusts the flow of Sherlock’s IV. The younger man visibly relaxes. Rupert gives me a nod and turns to leave.

            “If he needs anything, just let me know,” he says, and walks out. I note that he’s learned to address me and not Sherlock. Probably a good thing – Sherlock isn’t in the habit of asking people for help.

            I turn back to my friend. He’s still facing away from me, though his crying has finally quieted some. The medicine is doing its work.

            “Feeling a bit better?” I ask quietly.

            He hesitates, then nods. “I… apologize… for that display,” he replies carefully.

            “Don’t apologize,” I shake my head. “You were in pain.”

            He laughs bitterly. “Still am.”

            I sigh softly, and kneel beside his bed once more. My hand finds its way to his hair. I brush it back from his forehead. It’s softer than I expected.

            “Try to get some more sleep, eh?” I say. “I’ll make sure you don’t wake up in that much pain again.”

            He sniffs once, then nods, facing me once more. “Thank you, John.”

            I give him the best smile I can manage. “’Course, mate.”

            Tentatively and slowly, he moves his arm upward to catch my free hand in his. His fingers lace with mine. The touch is warm, and not unpleasant. For the first time since we arrived here, I notice that his touch makes me feel… different, somehow. Lighter. I look at his face. His mercurial eyes are scrutinizing me in the half light.

            “Is this all right?” he asks in a whisper.

            I try not to think too much about that question.

            “Of course it is,” I respond, trying to keep my tone light.

            He’s silent for a moment. Then – “Would you stay like this? Until I fall asleep.” His eyes drift downwards. He seems uncomfortable asking. Embarrassed, even.

            The truth is, I don’t want to let go of his hand either.

            I exhale. “Sure. Yeah.” My body settles itself into a more comfortable position.

            Sherlock’s fingers twitch, almost imperceptibly. “Thank you, John,” he whispers.

            “Rest now, Sherlock,” I say, brushing my thumb against his. “It will get easier soon.” I look down with a grimace at his legs. “I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

 

_Two Days Earlier - Battersea_

 

            "Where the hell have you been?" Sherlock asked with a scowl, tossing his Belstaff across the back of the pub seat with practiced coolness.

            Lestrade grimaced guiltily into his pint. He took a long draught, casting a furtive look around the establishment. It was midafternoon, and the pub was near empty.

            "Your number disappeared from my phone," he mumbled.

            Sherlock raised one elegant eyebrow. "My number disappeared from your phone."

            "Yeah! Y'know, your contact information."

            "Did any other numbers," he made air quotes with his fingers, " _disappear?_ "

            "No," Lestrade sighed.

            "And you don't even have my number memorized. You wound me, Gary." My companion feigned hurt. I hid a smirk behind my hand.

            "It's Greg, you git."

            "Must've been Mycroft," I observed when I regained my composure. "Trying to keep you off the case."

            "Mm," Sherlock acknowledged.

            "Where have _you_ been?" Lestrade queried. "You vanished at the beach. I was surprised. We chased down that barrel all morning, then when I turned to ask if you could make sense of it, both of you were just... gone."

            "We were, er, _sternly_ advised to leave the premises," I explained with a meaningful glance at our friend.

            "Eh?" Lestrade set his mug down heavily on the table.

            "The guys from MI5. They kicked us off the beach."

            "Your brother?" Lestrade asked Sherlock wearily.

            "Obviously."

            "Need a drink?"

            The edge of Sherlock's mouth quirked up almost imperceptibly.

            "John, why don't you get us three pints?" my friend asked.

            I nodded. I went to the bar and ordered three ales. When I brought them back to the table, Sherlock and Greg were locked in ardent discourse. I sat, placed the beers on the table, and tried to catch up with their heated argument.

            "You _need_ me at that factory, Lestrade. I'd wager my left hand that not a single man on your team could understand, let alone articulate, what the machinery in that lab even does."

            "I know that!" He didn't seem fazed that he had just admitted Scotland Yard's ignorance. "But I just can't have you involved! You're a liability, Sherlock."

            "Oh, come off it, Gavin."

            "Greg."

            "And since when has _legalese_ dictated the outlines of our friendship, Garrett? A liability?" he quoted with a shake of his head. "Honestly."

            Lestrade gripped the handle of his mug, face red despite not yet having drunk anything. He held his ground.

            "Those are my terms, Sherlock," he said, ignoring my companion's bait. "Take them or leave them."

            Sherlock scowled.

            "I make my own terms."

            He stood, whipped his coat off the back of the seat, and stormed out of the pub without another word. I sighed, watching him go. Throwing a temper tantrum at the universe.

            "You do know," I murmured to Lestrade as the bell on the door jingled angrily, "that he's on this case now, whether you like it or not."

            "He's going to get hurt," Lestrade intoned ominously, deadly sober. He raised his glass to his lips. "And I'm not going to be held responsible."

 

* * *

 

 

_One Day Earlier - Marylebone_

 

            The atmosphere at 221B the next day was dense, liable to combust at any second. My friend the detective lay, like the patient of a theatrical psychoanalyst, on the sofa with both hands clasped behind his head. His eyes were closed, but his foot twitched every couple of seconds. Eager to run.

            He was being suspiciously good.

            No matter how hard he would try to deny it, Sherlock saw Lestrade as a father figure. And in his own way, he tried to make him proud. Some part of his brain - the part that wasn't autistically preoccupied with projecting the appearance of an eccentric - truly wanted to make Lestrade happy. He would stay home, and he would wait. At least, that was my take on it.

            The text alert startled us. Or it startled me, anyway. I wasn't sure if anything could startle Sherlock Holmes.

            Sherlock looked at his phone. The light from the screen illuminated the topography of his face, accentuating curves and highlighting subtle imperfections he rarely let anyone see. He smirked.

            "Lestrade's had a change of heart," he announced.

            "Has he?" I hazarded.

            "Come along, John," he said, as if this had been his plan all along. "We're going to Avalon."

 

* * *

 

 

_One Day Earlier - Avalon Enterprises_

 

            "Sherlock, I'd like you to meet Major Tim Seary," Lestrade said formally, as if he hadn't just effectively banned us from his case. "Major Seary is the co-owner of Avalon Enterprises. He's agreed to give us a tour of the facility."

            "Anything to bring the perpetrators of these crimes to justice," the Major's silky voice agreed in a placating tone.

            Sherlock gave the man his patent once-over. Major Tim Seary used to be a thin man. He wasn't fat, not exactly - but some beer to the gut and a few folds to the face, and he had become the very image of a person who had accumulated too much wealth too quickly.

            Sherlock sniffed.

            "Who's the other co-owner?" Sherlock asked, without preamble or introduction.

            If Major Seary was offended, he did a very good job of not showing it.

            "My partner's name is Nolan Colmore," Seary said.

            "Nolan Colmore," Sherlock repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue. "I'll speak to him today as well."

            "Of course," Major Tim agreed in his soothing voice. I frowned. Something about him was off. He elongated each syllable of every word, holding out phrases for far too long. My instincts told me not to trust this man.

            But he _was_ helpful. He escorted us downstairs, into the basement manufacturing lab of Avalon Enterprises, where dozens of machines lathed away at flesh-tone blocks of plastic. Sherlock was right, as usual - I couldn't even begin to fathom what purpose these machines served. Lestrade looked equally perplexed.

            "This is our lab," he said, gesturing grandly at the sterile space before him. "We specialize in silicone implants, as you can clearly see from the assembly line before you."

            "Clearly," Lestrade agreed, trying for sage and falling short of the mark.

            "What's your market?" Sherlock barked. "Who buys your products?"

            "Oh, women in their early twenties for the most part. Poor things. Breasts and buttocks. And the occasional amputee..."

            "You manufacture prosthetics?" That got Lestrade's attention.

            "Oh yes. But nothing like those poor murder victims you described. Animal feathers?" Major Seary clicked his tongue in a mother-hen way. "And between you and me, there's simply no market for corpse prosthetics."

            "Mhm." Lestrade jotted something into a notepad. "How much does one of these implants cost?"

            "The simplest procedures start in the low thousands. A complicated restructuring could be tens of thousands of pounds. Or more." He smiled ghoulishly.

            Sherlock had wandered off, obviously not interested in Major Tim's marketing strategies.

            "Sherlock!" I hissed. "Excuse my friend, Major, he's... er..."

            "Oh, not to worry. He'll be perfectly safe here. The lab is monitored twenty-four hours a day by video surveillance."

            Lestrade made another note in his pad.

            "Would you mind if we borrowed those surveillance tapes from the past two weeks?"

            "Of course," Seary said, inclining his head politely. "You'll have the full cooperation of our staff and security team."

            "Thank you," I said gratefully. "I'm just going to, er, find Sherlock. If you don't mind."

            "Not at all, Doctor Watson."

            It wasn't until much, much later that I realized Lestrade had never given Major Tim Seary my name.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Present_

 

            Sherlock's hand is still tangled up in mine. That's the first thing I notice when I wake up, my back stiff and my neck twisted at an odd angle.

            The second thing I notice is Greg Lestrade.

            "Greg!" I yelp, hastily detaching my fingers from Holmes' hand and my face from the hospital bed, where I had evidently fallen asleep the day before. Or was it night? I stand with a wince. Everything pops.

            My face is red. Caught holding hands with Sherlock Holmes? I'm never going to live this one down. Lestrade gives me the ghost of a shit-eating grin. He claps a friendly hand on my shoulder. He winks, letting me know that he knows, and that he knows that I know that he knows. I groan.

            But there are more important matters at hand.

            "How is he?" he asks, grin softening back into worry.

            The heart monitor on the wall beeps slowly, but steadily.

            "Why don't you ask him yourself?" Sherlock's low baritone reverberates in the small space.

            "Sherlock!" Greg kneels beside the detective's bed. "You're awake."

            "Wonderful observation. Do you have any more?"

            Lestrade laughs brokenly. I wonder if he's going to cry.

            "Good to see you too, ass."

            Sherlock smiles at him, his first genuine smile since this whole ordeal started. It's hard not to break into a smile myself. Good old Sherlock.

            "Ah, Sherlock," Lestrade sighs. "I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this, old friend."

            "I got myself into it," Sherlock admits with a shake of his head. "If anything, _I_ brought _you_ into it."

            "They told me to expect the worst, downstairs. That you might not..."

            "I'll die precisely when I mean to."

            Even I huff a laugh at that one.

            "Ah yes, the Great Wizard Sherlock. Master Of His Own Fate And The Fates Of Those Around Him," Lestrade intones gravely, mimicking turning the pages of a book.

            Sherlock's brows furrow. He doesn't get the joke, or chooses to appear not to. But when I look at his face - really look at it - I see that beneath all the pain lines, and the tired, bruised undereyes, that he is joyful. A regular old fountain of mirth, that Sherlock.

            And as he and Lestrade bait each other, throwing around witticisms and insults, I begin to feel something that had been missing the previous few days. Something I thought had died the moment Sherlock lost his legs.

            I began to feel hope for my friend.


End file.
